Bottleneck (11 page)

Cullen's mouth felt dry. "Hughes has been
murdered
?"

"Aye," said Bain, pulling a wad of paper out of his file. "Here you go, Sherlock."

Cullen flicked through the pages. It was true. "What happened?"

Bain rubbed his top lip. "Couple of uniform got called to his flat in the wee small hours of the morning. They had to break the door down. They found Hughes dead. A stabbing."

"Ours was stabbed, too," said Cullen.

Bain leaned forward. "Are you trying to steal my case here? Bit of a coincidence your body is found the same week his mate gets stabbed."

"Nothing of the sort," said Cullen. "I think we should keep the cases independent."

Bain sniffed. "Not sure. It all sounds a bit suspicious, if you ask me. I might need to co-opt your investigation into mine. Need to make sure we leverage all opportunities here."

"You sound like Turnbull," said Cullen.

"You should have checked with us before you came through," said McCrea. "Just as well me and Davie were interviewing his upstairs neighbours when you blundered in."

"Whatever," said Cullen.

Bain got to his feet. "I'll get the paperwork going on taking over your case. If I were you, I'd be here tomorrow morning for my seven am briefing."

"I need to speak to Cargill and Methven about this," said Cullen.

Bain waved from the door. "Say a big hello to them from me."

Cullen and Buxton got back to Leith Walk station just over an hour later. They finally found Cargill at her desk near Turnbull's office, poring over a spreadsheet on a laptop. Methven was nowhere to be seen.

Cullen cleared his throat.

Cargill waved him off, still staring at the screen.

"Ma'am."

She looked up and slowly closed the screen. "Can this wait?"

"Afraid not," said Cullen, wheeling a desk chair over. "I don't know how to say this, so I'll just come out with it. You know the case I'm working?"

"The Strang case," said Cargill, nodding. "Stabbing. Tunnels under the Old Town. Correct?"

"Right," said Cullen. "I'm afraid it's just taken a turn for the worse."

Cargill rubbed her forehead. "I have a feeling I'm not going to like this."

"It's linked to a case on Strathclyde's books," said Cullen.

"Strathclyde?" said Cargill. "It'll all be water under the bridge soon."

"That's the thing," said Cullen. "The case is run by DI Bain."

"Now I see."

"There are slight similarities," said Cullen. "The person who reported our guy missing is their victim. He was found dead in Glasgow on Thursday morning."

"Could just be a coincidence," said Cargill.

"I don't believe in coincidences."

"So what was our esteemed former colleague saying, then?"

"He's trying to take over our case. He told me to attend his seven am briefing tomorrow."

"I'm not having that," said Cargill, shaking her head. "I'll speak to Jim and we'll get something sorted out."

"Thanks," said Cullen.

"You know DI Bain has a particular axe to grind with a few of us through here. Try not to be deflected from your own investigation. Just get on with it and treat it as a separate case until I tell you otherwise, okay?"

"Will do," said Cullen.

Experience told him not to believe her. His gut ached with the dread of getting stuck back in Bain's vortex of chaos.

Cullen sent Buxton and Chantal to speak to Strang's colleagues at the record shop, chase up his friends and try to find his flatmates. Hopefully, that would give him peace and quiet to get stuck into something that progressed the case.

"Are you going to be here long, Sergeant?"

Cullen looked up at Methven putting his leather jacket on. "Probably, sir."

"Remember the Clear Desk Policy."

Cullen looked down at his desk, now covered with photocopies of the case files for Strang's murder and his disappearance in 2011. "I'll clear up before I leave tonight."

Methven checked his watch. "I'll hopefully get to Mellis's before they shut. Got a sodding dinner party I'd much rather not be attending."

"Wife's friends?"

Methven scowled. "Worse, her work colleagues."

"You could have us all round."

"I don't want to get divorced." Methven put a stack of coins in his trouser pocket. "I'll maybe call later."

Cullen watched him stroll off, relieved to be on his own. He jolted upright, determined to get stuck into work.

Caffeine drove him on as much as the determination to keep the case separate from Bain's. The new Chief Constable of Police Scotland was the current head of Strathclyde - unless they got a result by Sunday night, Cullen feared his influence would push the cases into a merger.

He took a swig from the bottle of water he'd bought with lunch and looked around the almost-empty office.

Cullen turned to his computer and logged onto the newspaper archives, focusing on the six months leading up to Strang's disappearance. There was the occasional feature about the band. As Johnson and Williamson said, they were getting some semblance of a profile.

The biggest was a review of the last Invisibles gig in the
Argus
by someone called Sonny Bangs. Cullen had a vague recollection of the name Lester Bangs from his old man's punk obsession. He hadn't thought it was a real name.

The review covered a whole page of the broadsheet, which Cullen thought was unusual for an unsigned band. He carefully read it, full of gushing praise, touting the band as the next big thing,
'sure to eclipse Expect Delays'
. The picture alongside showed Strang in full-on Iggy Pop mode, cutting open his chest onstage with a broken beer bottle. It was so busy people were standing on tables to see the band.

A second inset picture showed him smashing a guitar like the cover of The Clash's
London Calling
. Cullen frowned, recalling the expensive Fender Buxton had drooled over in Strang's bedroom. The guitar in the photo was red. He googled it and found a musicians' forum recommending switching to a cheap guitar for the last song as an economical way of looking like The Who in the sixties.

The band played four songs in twelve minutes and Bangs cited the Jesus and Mary Chain, referencing a notorious series of short and angry gigs in London during the mid-eighties, at least one of which led to a riot. Cullen googled again and found he knew a couple of their songs from the film
Lost in Translation
.

According to the review, the last song of the concert - the last song James Strang ever performed - was a wall of feedback. Strang was shouting 'they took all the money and all the fame', turning it into a mantra and inciting the crowd to sing along. He smashed the guitar halfway through and walked off through the crowd, blood dripping from his torso.

According to the article, there was some trouble after the gig. Cullen took it to be more hyperbole. He checked through police reports of the night, finding a couple of arrests on the Cowgate as a result of crowd violence, unclear whether it was from the gig or the football.

He dug into Lester Bangs - he was a punk rock journalist, helping fuel the American punk movement in the mid-seventies before covering the rise of the Sex Pistols, The Clash and countless others in the UK a few years later. Sonny Bangs was definitely a made-up name, someone trying to set themselves up as some sort of local punk rock figurehead. Maybe he was associated with the band.

Cullen needed to speak to Sonny Bangs about James Strang.

Cullen parked his car on Holyrood Road and walked to the
Argus
's offices, just across from
The Scotsman
and Dynamic Earth. It was round the corner from the municipal swimming pool that passed for the Scottish Parliament building.

He shivered as he marched on down the road, the early evening wind cutting through him, the sun close to setting.

He entered the concrete, chrome and glass construction. The building teemed with activity through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Sunday edition just about ready for the press, last minute football stories no doubt throwing the sport section into disarray.

Manning the reception desk was a young Asian man, wearing a sharp suit and a beard that would take a good twenty minutes of chiselling every morning.

Cullen smiled as he produced his warrant card and introduced himself. "I'm looking for a Sonny Bangs. He works on your features desk."

"One moment." He checked on his computer. "There's nobody of that name here."

Cullen pulled out a print of the article. "This was written in August two thousand and eleven."

"There's nobody on the system."

"Can you try-"

"We got a problem here?"

A grey-haired man in his late forties was frowning at Cullen.

"Sorry, who are you?" said Cullen.

The man pulled an ID badge out of his pocket. "The name is Alexander Spence. I'm the Editor."

"I need to speak to Sonny Bangs as part of a murder inquiry."

"He doesn't work here any more," said Spence. "We let him go in the last round of cuts."

Cullen knew exactly what he meant. Newspaper circulation in Scotland was in free fall, continual rounds of redundancies the only weapon the owners seemed to have in their armoury. He could see a time when there was just one Scottish national paper rather than the current three.

"Can you give me a phone number?" said Cullen.

"Have you got a warrant?"

Cullen ground his teeth. "I'll get one."

"You do that," said Spence. "Now kindly clear off will you? I've got all seven days under my belt now and a Sunday edition to put to bed."

Cullen stared him down for a few seconds then decided it was best to leave it. Decimated readership figures or not, the press still had power. He nodded slowly, before leaving the building.

Cullen's Plan B was his ex-flatmate, Richard McAlpine, who worked for the paper. He got out his phone and called as he walked.

No answer.

Cullen buzzed the door and waited. At least they'd got the intercom fixed. He felt a slight pang of guilt, realising he hadn't been back since moving out, only seeing Tom and Rich once each since.

"Yo."

"Hi Tom, it's Scott."

"Who?"

"Very funny."

"Up you come, mate."

Cullen trudged up the stairs, getting flashbacks of every time he'd climbed them, drunk and sober.

Tom stood in the doorway.

Cullen was shocked by how much weight he'd lost. "I'm looking for Tom."

"Aye, very funny," said Tom, tapping his receding belly. "5:2 fasting, mate. It bloody works."

"I can see that," said Cullen. "My old boy has been doing it. You look knackered, though."

"Cheers," said Tom as he let Cullen in. "Been working in London a lot. Big project down there in Corporate."

"Are Alba Bank branching out?" said Cullen.

Tom shrugged. "We've always had a presence down there, nothing like RBS or Lloyds have, but let's just say it needs some TLC. Bit of a fucking disaster, to be honest with you."

Cullen knew too much about Tom's employers, one of the three big banks in Edinburgh, from years of living together.

"How's my room?" said Cullen.

Tom spoke in a whisper. "The guy who rents it now is a bit of a weirdo. Don't think I'll renew his lease."

Cullen handed him a pile of CDs. "Cheers for these. Some good stuff there."

"You still love a freebie, Skinky."

Cullen laughed. "Remember when you did music? Did you ever come across a guy called Jimi Danger?"

Tom shrugged. "Is he a DJ?"

Cullen shook his head. "Sang in a band."

"Well, it's not likely a techno DJ would meet a singer from a band, is it?" said Tom.

"I guess not." Cullen shrugged. "Does the name The Invisibles mean anything to you?"

Tom frowned. "It's a comic. Grant Morrison did it. One of my very favourites."

Cullen clicked his fingers. "I knew it. It's been bugging me all day."

"I'd lend you it," said Tom, "but it's a bit advanced for you. Very metaphysical."

"Very good."

"So, what brings you back?"

"I need to speak to Rich," said Cullen.

"What's he done this time? Lost his phone again? Had to scarper from some bloke's flat after his boyfriend found them
in flagrante delicto
?"

"Nothing like that," said Cullen, laughing. "You two getting on okay?"

"Yeah, fine," said Tom, looking the opposite, but as though he couldn't be arsed talking about it. "Not seen him, but I think he's in. I've been working all afternoon."

"Cheers." Cullen walked to Rich's door and knocked, knowing from bitter experience never to barge in without an invite.

"Come in," said Rich.

"Are you alone?" said Cullen, as he entered.

Rich was sitting at his desk, laptop open. His eyes widened and he slammed it shut.

"That a porn site you're on?" said Cullen.

Rich rubbed his chin. "It's a detective book I'm writing."

"Interesting."

"Aye," said Rich. "It's harder than I thought it would be. Writing about the real world is much easier than writing fiction, that's for sure. The stuff I've seen would seem over the top in a book."

"Try living the life of a detective," said Cullen. "Feels like everybody makes money out of policing except for the police."

"Well, I'll give you some kickbacks if I ever get published," said Rich.

"How you doing?" said Cullen.

"I'm okay," said Rich, grinning, "but I know that expression. This isn't a social call, is it?"

Cullen nodded. "Perceptive as ever. I was just at your work."

Rich's eyes shot to the ceiling. "Tell me you didn't mention me."

"Relax," said Cullen. "I can do discrete. Is Alexander Spence your boss?"

Rich grimaced. "He's kind of the boss's boss, but aye."

"He's a piece of work," said Cullen, retrieving the article from his jacket pocket and handing it to Rich. "I need to speak to this journalist."

Rich looked at it. "Sonny Bangs?"

"I'm investigating the death of James Strang," said Cullen.